Apple Butter
by Belfast Docks
Summary: An old family tradition haunts George the autumn after Fred's death. George/Angelina.


**Author's Notes:** I wrote this _years_ ago. 2008, to be precise. It was originally posted on the HP archive "Checkmated", which I thought had disappeared entirely. When I realized the site came back up for a bit, I decided to quickly transfer it to FFnet in order to save it (I'm notorious for deleting stuff off my computer once I finish writing a piece).

**Thanks To:** My original beta on Checkmated, PigWithHair.

**Pairing:** George/Angelina

* * *

**Apple Butter**

* * *

_"Do we _have_ to pick apples?" __The voices chorused in almost perfect unison, with a slightly sullen edge._

_"No, I suppose you don't _have_ to pick apples. But, if you don't, then you won't be allowed to enjoy them later, either."_

_"Aw, Mum!"_

_"That's not fair!"_

_"It most certainly _is_ fair. It takes a lot of time to make everything with those apples, and I can't bake unless you pick them. You only receive that which you work to earn."_

_"Well, _that's_ not true. Dad works all the time, and we're _still_ poor."_

_For a moment, she sputtered incoherently, her face becoming blotched and furious, before she finally yelled, "Your father works very hard to keep food on this table and I will _not_ have you boys saying anything like that! Go to your room, both of you!"_

_"Aw, Mum! That's not fair, either!"_

_"We'd rather pick apples."_

_"There will be no apples! Not if you're going to say bad things about your father and this family! Upstairs! Now! And if I find out you've done any underaged magic while you're up there, there won't be any dinner, either!"_

* * *

The autumn breeze was chilly, and the leaves had long since turned to dull reds and browns. Though autumn mantels were usually fiery and bright, these seemed limp and defeated, as though they were quite ready for this season to be over with so they could fall to the ground and become buried beneath November's first frost. Even in the late afternoon sunlight, which was fading quickly, the orchard wasn't exactly cheerful and serene – the shadows had turned it into a cold, mysterious place that looked unfamiliar. And it was obvious that the dry, dead grass needed trimming – something no one had time to do, if they had even thought of it. The dry weeds rose past the first rail of the weathered wooden fence lining the edge of the orchard and brushed George's jeans as he carefully walked into the extension of his family's property.

He stopped just inside the orchard, turning a dead gaze towards the overgrown apple trees. They had never been what one would call maintained, but these days they appeared worse than he remembered. Then again, he hadn't set foot in the orchard in quite some time. And he was only here now to escape, if only for a few brief minutes, from the mandatory family gathering his mother had insisted upon this evening.

Despite the wild, twisted look of the orchard, George did notice that there were a few apples remaining – those which hadn't been attacked by the birds or fallen to the ground to rot. Though they were few, they were still hanging amongst the leaves, peeping through the curtains of brown and dark mottled green to show their burnished red curves.

Shivering, he pulled his corduroy coat closer around him. It was quite cold this October, more so than usual, and it was darker in the orchard than in the garden, because the clusters of trees here blocked most of the quickly setting sun. The shadows were a bit depressing, but he had to admit that he liked them that way. It was exactly how _he_ felt: depressed.

George sighed heavily and ducked beneath a low-hanging branch into the deeper shadows of the orchard, determined to wallow in the misery that gnawed constantly inside of him, just for once. Because usually, he was trying to pretend he was just fine – if only so his family would leave him alone.

But as he stepped further into the orchard, he came face-to-face with a dark red apple, hanging on a low branch, dangling before him tantalizingly. For a moment he stared at it, watching the branch move just slightly with a sudden burst of wind.

In that instant, his mind flooded with images, sights, sounds, smells, and tastes. The specific memory that had been recalled was amazingly fresh and painful, as though it had happened just yesterday. It had surfaced in his brain without his being able to repress it, and the ease with which it came to his conscious was frightening. He was horrified and disturbed that the sight of the single, lone apple could bring forth such clear images, yet he couldn't stop them from bubbling up and playing before his eyes.

They had been ten – it had been the autumn before they went to Hogwarts.

Every single autumn, Mum sent them into the orchard with Dad, to pick baskets of apples so she could bake and can and preserve. For weeks, the smell of apples, dough, and spice would fill the Burrow as Molly Weasley put her culinary arts to work. There were apple tarts, apple pastries, apple pies, apple cakes, apple butter, candied apples, apple jelly, apple jam – anything she could turn into something worth eating with apples. At the beginning of the season, everything would taste delicious. And inevitably, by late November, the Weasley family would be bloody well sick of apples. But it was one thing that didn't cost money, and money had been so precious back then.

The real reason she had been so angry with Fred for blatantly saying they were poor on that particular morning was simply because it was the truth, and she _hated_ to hear it.

The twins had spent the day shut up in their room, sulky and angry because the comment had cost them from going outside with their dad, Ron, and Ginny to pick the apples. It had been their last year to do so before leaving home – the next September they would be off for Hogwarts and would only have a couple of weeks to help in the orchard. And as much as they whined about the chore, they had secretly loved running in the filtered sunlight through the weeds, climbing the rickety ladders, bewitching apples to fly at Ron or watching Ginny sneak one for herself instead of putting it in the basket.

The worst part of the day had been that night at dinner. There was an apple pie, and the twins had not been allowed to have even one bite. Ron and Ginny had smirked at them, and Dad had asked if the punishment could be lifted just a wee bit, but Mum stuck to it with that dangerous glint in her eye that dared them to defy her.

It wasn't until everyone had gone to bed that Fred and George decided they couldn't possibly go an entire autumn without _any_ of their mother's apple-inspired creations. So they had snuck outside as soon as they were sure everyone was asleep and picked two full bushels of apples without the aid of magic, just in case they were caught. Then they had dragged them back inside to the kitchen. Exhausted, they had merely fallen asleep on the floor – only to be discovered by their mother the next morning when she came down to cook breakfast in her ratty old dressing gown. At first, after she had shaken them awake roughly, she had been furious that they had ventured beyond the Burrow after dark. But at the sight of her twin boys barely awake and rather tousled – too sleepy to even pop off in response to her rants – she had softened and finally hugged and kissed them both.

Then she gave them apple butter for their toast and took their baskets and added them to the other baskets of apples piled in the corner of the kitchen.

It was that morning that George realized how much he loved apple butter. Up until that year, he had been partial to the apple pastries, and Fred's favorite was always the candied apples dipped in caramel and sprinkled with walnuts. But when his mother had hugged him (despite the fact that he had detested the affection at the time), he was so glad she hadn't been truly angry with them and that the punishment for Fred's comment had been revoked.

And after that morning, George secretly loved the way the apple butter spread so smoothly on toast and tasted so sweet, because it had been what Molly Weasley had given her twins for their pains to get back into her good graces.

He licked his lower lip unconsciously, his eyes riveted on the dark red apple before him.

Then, instinctively, George lifted his hand. It seemed like lead – it was so hard to move, because the last time he had done this, Fred had been by his side. It had been nearly pitch black, and freezing, but they had been _together_. His fingers trembled inches from the apple at the thought of Fred, and as if hoping to get the worst emotion over with quickly, George seized the apple and snatched it roughly from the branch.

The limb snapped back into the air with a rustle. George looked down at his numb fingers. The apple was in his hand, smooth and cold; he hardly remembered reaching for it, now.

He rubbed his thumb over the skin. He loved the feel of apples, the way they crunched and burst into your mouth with juice and flavor. He loved the way his mother had put cinnamon and nutmeg into her recipes. He loved watching Ron scream like a girl whenever a basket had been lifted threateningly over his head, ready to fall at a moment's notice, and he even loved the way his father had scolded them for using magic and trying to make Ron panic.

It was all ridiculously silly, and he had never bothered to tell Fred, because the way he felt about apples was emotional. And boys didn't seem to talk about emotions much.

George closed his eyes tightly, desperate not to let any tears slip through. He knew he shouldn't have come home this weekend. His mother had insisted he come for Halloween dinner, with the rest of the family, and she wouldn't accept no as an answer. She wanted her family around her for a big feast, complete with lighted pumpkins and festivities. But George had been avoiding returning home for the past five months as much as possible, just so he wouldn't constantly be reminded of Fred. Not that he wasn't constantly reminded of his brother at the joke shop, but there, he could at least work himself to death. At the Burrow, the memories were fresh, preserved as though in an ancient oil painting, so that he couldn't possibly escape them. He wondered if he could survive the rest of the evening without losing what remained of his sanity or having a breakdown. Sometimes, it just seemed so easy to stop being strong and let everyone know that deep down you had been destroyed, and you were only putting up a front, pretending to be strong, to hide the empty, fragile shell that remained.

"You were lucky, you know. Growing up with all these so close by."

The familiar, yet completely unexpected voice shattered his thoughts, as well as the onrush of depression he had felt. George turned abruptly, frowning – the voice had made the tears blink back into his eyes without falling, and he was somewhat grateful for that, at least. Standing beside the gate, dressed in a long coat, stood Angelina Johnson.

She moved forward when he turned, burying her hands deep inside the coat pockets. "Verity said I could find you here, and your mum told me you were outside wandering around, refusing to socialize with your family." She cracked a small smile.

George opened his mouth, but he had no idea what to say, so he closed it again. His mother could think all she wanted, but he had no desire to socialize much tonight. And what on earth was Angelina doing here? It wasn't as if they didn't see each other occasionally; she was living in a flat in Diagon Alley, working at Quality Quidditch Supplies. And at least once a month, if not more, Lee would try to get their old Hogwarts year together to go pub-crawling – an event George rather disliked, only because these days he preferred to remain alone.

Angelina seemed to read his thoughts, because she went on, without sounding remotely miffed at his silence. "Lee wanted to know if you'd like to come with us tonight. That new pub opened up Diagon Alley yesterday. He thought it might be a fun party there tonight, being Halloween and all." She paused and looked up into the old tree, then reached to pluck a small apple. The leaves rustled again, and she twisted it in her hand to snap it from the branch. "Seriously lucky," she murmured. "I _love_ apples. Anyways – your mom said your family was having dinner here, so I guess you can't come tonight, then."

He swallowed, still at a loss for words. He wasn't sure which was worse: staying at home with his family, immersed in memories of Fred that radiated from every fiber of the Burrow and seeing the pitiful looks that his siblings and their significant others would occasionally throw his way when they thought he wouldn't notice... or going out with Lee, Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and the rest of his old school friends, who would only get him drunk, and then inevitably start remembering all the pranks he and Fred had pulled at school.

At least the first option didn't include waking up on November first with a hangover that could kill a Hippogriff. It never failed to amaze him how getting drunk always seemed like a good idea at the start, and then the next morning he would feel a thousand times worse. It wasn't just the massive headache; somehow, once the alcohol wore off, the pain of Fred's death seemed to increase.

Angelina must have realized he still wasn't going to speak, because she said apologetically, "I'll tell Lee you had other plans. I wouldn't have come over if I'd known it was a family tradition, having Halloween together and all. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. And it isn't a tradition. Mum just thought it would be...nice. This year."

George realized, after he said it, just how bitter and low his voice sounded. But if Angelina heard the emotion she didn't seem bothered.

"Well, you will get to see everyone, I suppose."

He heard the familiar crunching noise of teeth sinking into an apple. The sound was loud to his ears, like an explosion from the end of a wand. It reminded him again of how Ginny was always caught snitching them, even if his dad only laughed at her antics. She had never, ever been punished for eating apples before they were taken in to the kitchen. Come to think of it, there had been very little that Ginny had ever actually been punished for.

"Bit tangy," Angelina said between crunches. "I like them that way, though."

"So do I." George looked back at his own apple, suddenly wanting it more than he realized. Slowly, he took a bite, determined to savor the noise and the taste as they combined. It was indeed just a bit tart, probably because it was late in the season. It made his body shiver and tingle. As he chewed, he said, "We used to pick them when we were kids. All of us, I mean." He swallowed the bite, willing it not to get stuck in his throat. "We haven't done it in years, though."

"What did you do with them all?"

"Merlin. Mum would do all sorts of barmy things with them. I never realized you could get so much out of a bloody apple until she started baking and canning. It was nuts."

"What was your favorite thing she used to make?" Angelina took another bite, watching him closely.

For a long moment, George was silent. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth to extract a small bit of skin that had stuck there, if only to prolong the answer, but finally he made the admission. "Apple butter."

Angelina was still watching him, her dark eyes curious as she took another bite.

"It was sweet and tart all at once," George explained, without looking at her. "Mum put cinnamon and nutmeg in it. It tasted good on homemade bread."

"It sounds wonderful. But it's odd to hear you talk about it."

"Huh?"

"You never talked about things like that while we were in school. It makes you more interesting, to know that you love something as random as apple butter."

"Oh, so I was dull before, was I?"

Angelina laughed at the teasing in his tone. "No, of course you weren't dull." She paused and smiled. "It's just that...you were always George. I never stopped to think about the things you liked, or didn't like."

"No, you were always thinking about Fred, I suppose."

The moment he said it, he realized he shouldn't have. His brother's name stabbed at him sharply when it escaped his lips, and he saw the sudden pain in Angelina's eyes as well.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "I meant...you know, you and Fred were always..." Bloody hell, he was just going from bad to worse. Just because Angelina had dated Fred for a bit didn't necessarily mean she had been in love with him. Had she?

Angelina looked down at her half-eaten apple and shivered as a gust of cold breeze pushed them slightly. "Fred and I were just friends, George. I thought surely you, of all people, knew that."

George ran his free hand behind his neck nervously. "Fred and I didn't really talk much about the _feelings_ we had for girls. We talked _about_ girls – but that's a little different. So I suppose I never really knew."

"Oh, trust me, I'm perfectly aware of how boys talk about girls," Angelina said sarcastically. "Lee's always going on about it."

"He wouldn't shut up about you in our dormitory, either." George smirked fondly at the memory of Lee's enamored babbling on why Angelina was the hottest girl in their year. He'd go on for ages if they let him; usually after ten minutes or so, Fred and George would both start throwing pillows at him to shut him up.

"He's not going to get it that I don't like him that way, and he never has. Just like I didn't like Fred that way. They were both...they were both just friends. Lee still is. And I only went out with Fred a few times because he asked me."

Angelina stopped abruptly and stared at him for a brief second. Then, to his surprise, she tossed the apple core into the depths of the orchard and brushed her hands off. "I should be going. I'm meeting everyone at seven."

"Wait. Why don't you stay for dinner, instead of going out with Lee and the others?"

Realizing what he had blurted out, he felt he'd again said something he shouldn't have. Angelina would have a much better time partying with their friends on Halloween than staying at the Burrow with a bunch of Weasleys doing stupid things like carving pumpkins. He was just on the verge of telling her to forget the idea when she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

"George, your mum has a full table inside. She can't squeeze in another person, even _if_ she uses more magic to expand the room." She paused. "Besides, I think she's a little...down. She seemed tired when she answered the door. I don't know if she'd want me around tonight."

"No, it's not you. She's been like that for a while. Ever since..." _Ever since Fred's death_, he thought.

Angelina nodded to indicate she understood. "So..." She diverted her eyes. "I guess I'll see you later." With that, she turned back to the gate in the fence.

"Angelina, wait."

She stopped again and looked back at him.

George shifted his weight and tossed his own apple to the ground, unheeded. "Thanks. I mean thanks for asking me. I know I've been a prat lately. I can't help it. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

To his surprise, Angelina smiled at him and stepped back into the orchard. Before George realized what she was planning to do, she had wrapped her arms about him in a tight hug.

"We all worry about you," she whispered.

It was a long moment, and a bit awkward, but after a few seconds he twisted his arms around her. Her body was more slender than he realized – she had always played Quidditch, and was solid from hard training, but she wasn't overweight or ugly in any sense of either word. George buried his face against her shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of sharp spice and tropical fruit; whatever her perfume was, it was perfect for her.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there, holding each other beneath an old apple tree, but when another gust of icy wind blew through the branches, George realized how cold he was from standing in the fading shadows. It was dusk now, and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

"You should go on," he said gruffly, drawing back a little. "Lee will think I kidnapped you."

Angelina looked at him for a long moment. "You know... Maybe you should pick some apples." Her eyes flickered towards the top branches, where several apples dangled in the gathering, gloomy twilight. "See if your mum might make you some apple butter. For old times' sake, I mean. It might make you both feel a little better."

She turned to go again, but this time it was George who reacted without warning. Perhaps it had been the remark about the apple butter or how tuned she was to his feelings that made him feel a surge of need, thankfulness, and desire. He grabbed her hand, only briefly surprised to find it was as chilly as his, and pulled her back to face him. And before he could think twice about it, he was kissing her firmly on the mouth, using his other hand to hold her jaw in place.

To his utter shock, Angelina was only startled for a second, and she most certainly didn't hex him like he expected her to. Instead, she nearly threw herself back into the kiss with such enthusiasm that it rocked him. Almost frenzied, they grappled with each other, hanging on tightly with their mouths, swaying to keep their balance. In the cold air, the sensation was incredible – one second, his mouth was cold, and the next it was burning as they went from kiss to kiss.

Only when George vaguely heard his mother calling from the back door for everyone to come inside and eat did he manage to pull away. He was stunned to find that it was no longer even twilight; it was now dark. He had no idea how long they had stood there, snogging like school kids in an empty classroom, hoping that Filch wouldn't burst in. He swallowed hard. He'd only dimly thought of kissing Angelina before, when they had been at Hogwarts, because he knew Fred and Lee both liked her. But now, he suddenly wanted to keep her to himself. Fred wasn't here, and Lee could just bloody well find a different girl. When Angelina shifted, George kept a tight hold on her hand, suddenly scared that if he let go, she would vanish. He had lost so much. He wasn't going to lose this, too – whatever it was. He wasn't exactly sure yet.

Angelina's low voice broke the silence. "It was always you. It's been like that since sixth year. But I didn't think you were interested."

"Yeah, well, I am," George muttered. "Have been for some time, really." He cupped her face and kissed her again.

Angelina groaned softly. "We've got to have a long talk about this, but we're going to have to do it later. Your mum has dinner ready, George."

"In a minute." His mouth was trailing down her throat and neck, moving of its own accord. He had to taste her. He could vaguely remember Fred telling him, after the Yule Ball, that Angelina had tasted exotic...like some tropical island and cocoa. The remark had earned a sharp smack on the back of Fred's head, thanks to Lee's pillow, and George had laughed at the time. But now, he could see what his twin had meant.

And then something suddenly pushed him away from her, though it wasn't Angelina's hands. Whatever it was, it forced him to break contact with her skin.

"Hey!"

"It's a basket, idiot." She laughed affectionately. "For the apples. We've got to get back before your mum comes _looking_ for you. Unless of course, you'd like her to find you snogging me out in the cold. So you'd best use _Accio_, because we don't have time to actually _pick_ them."

"No, I can't say I want her to see us snogging out in the cold," he admitted grudgingly. The very thought was unnerving. George turned to the tree, now a dark mass in the night. "_Accio Apples!_"

The apples came soaring out of the branches with snaps and landed in a neat pile in the basket that Angelina had Conjured. As soon as it was full, he grasped the handle with her, and together they headed back to the Burrow, both silent and thoughtful. He wondered what she was thinking – his brain was buzzing too much to think of anything except wanting to kiss her more and maybe have that talk she had mentioned.

As they approached the kitchen door however, his mum stepped outside, and George quickly rearranged his expression into sober and brooding instead of the giddy feeling that had wormed its way through his chest and had been most certainly etched on his features just seconds prior.

"George! Where on earth have you been? I called everyone to dinner five minutes ago!"

"Sorry, mum. We were out in the orchard."

Angelina stepped up to the door with him, shifting so the heavy basket stayed balanced between them. "Your son invited me to dinner, Mrs. Weasley. That is...if you have enough food to go around...or enough room for one more person."

"Oh, yes, dear! Of course! I thought you were going out with Lee and the girls! But no; you're quite welcome to stay! We're going to be eating in the living room as well as the kitchen, since there are already so many of us, so it's no bother at all. We would love to have you." Her sharp gaze suddenly fell on the basket. "George, dear, what are those?"

"Apples."

"I can see that, but...?"

George swallowed and looked into his mother's eyes. "I was hoping you might make some apple butter. If you have a chance. If not, that's okay. But these were still out there and there's no sense wasting them when –"

He was prepared for them, but it still didn't make his mother's tears easier to bear. She, also, had obviously remembered, and she cut him off with a sob.

_Bugger_, but he did hate her to get emotional. He should have left the bloody apples on the tree.

"_Oh_! Oh, _George_! Of course I can! I'll make a batch tonight! And perhaps some candied apples and a pie for after dinner tea? I haven't baked anything this autumn! I can't see how I've let the time slip away from me so quickly!" And she had the basket before George could give it to her and was already weaving her way into the kitchen, amidst the crowd of people gathered for dinner.

Mr. Weasley spoke next, his voice eager and excited.

"Apples! We haven't picked any this year, have we? What _have_ we been thinking? Oh! I say; I heard just a few months ago that on Halloween, Muggles put apples in big washtubs full of water and try to catch them with their mouths! I believe they call it...bobbing, or dunking? I can't remember. But wouldn't that be fun to try?"

Ginny started to laugh. "Do they _really_? What on earth _for_?"

"It's a tradition!" Hermione sounded miffed. "And it is quite fun, actually!"

"Unless Dudley pushes your head under the water and tries to drown you. Then it tends to lose some of its appeal."

"Well, eet sounds 'orrible, eef you ask me. 'ho wishes to get their face all wet trying to ceetch an apple?"

"We can _try_ it, just to see how it works," Mr. Weasley said hopefully.

"Absolutely not." Molly's voice was final. "These apples are for George."

"All of them? Oh, come on, that's not fair!" Ron complained.

Mrs. Weasley glanced through the crowd at George, who was still standing in the doorway with Angelina. With a sad smile she said, "It's perfectly fair, Ron. If you want to _earn_ something, you have to _work_ for it. George picked them, so unless he says you can have some, then I'm afraid they're _his_."

"Well... Angelina helped," said George. "So I guess we can all have some."

Instantly, his family turned to look at Angelina, whom they suddenly seemed to have just noticed, and he felt the back of his neck flush. Subtly, George slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it slightly. Angelina squeezed back, and he managed to smile.

Somehow, the pain and the memories didn't hurt so badly at that moment.

If he could just keep holding on, maybe he would be okay.

**~FIN~**


End file.
